Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “Monsieur le Baron. Monsieur de Chavigny. I hope we have been of assistance to you.” He paused, then turned to Edouard. “You are returning to France tomorrow, I think you said, Monsieur de Chavigny?”

  “Yes.”

  “If in the meantime, we can be of any further assistance, I shall be honored—”

  “Of course.” Edouard cut him off. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

  He glanced at both men. The Frenchman smiled suavely; the Algerian, a small dark man in heavy hornrimmed spectacles, did not smile. He had not uttered one word during their entire briefing. The two aides turned back toward the offices, and Edouard and Jean-Paul walked slowly down the wide steps to the street.

  Jean-Paul paused at a kiosk to buy a pack of Gauloises. They were handed to him by a tiny nut-brown man in a red fez who also sold little packets of sugared almonds and pistachios. And newspapers. Figaro; Le Monde; the Herald-Tribune; The Wall Street Journal; El Moudjahid, the main Algerian daily, which was in French. Edouard glanced at the large photograph on the front page and looked away. He moved to the shade of a palm tree as Jean-Paul counted out his change. A military vehicle passed, filled with French paratroopers. The offices were closing; the wide elegant boulevard was busy with traffic. He looked down it, past the beautiful white shuttered houses to the bay in the distance, and the blue glitter of the sea.

  “Come on.” Jean-Paul put an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get a drink. I’m parched. It’s so bloody hot. I told Isobel we’d wait for her at the Café de la Paix…”

  “Isobel? I thought she was staying up at the villa to rest?”

  “Oh, she changed her mind at the last moment. Wanted to look at some shop or other—you know what women are like. She’s got the car—we can all drive back together.”

  “Oh, very well. But I don’t want to stay long. I’ve some calls to make…” Edouard shrugged, and allowed himself to be drawn along the street toward the Place de la Révolution. They crossed the square and went into the café. It was already beginning to fill up with French businessmen, and Jean-Paul made purposefully for a table in the window. He sat down.

  “Two pastis.” He leaned back in his chair. “We’ll see Isobel from here. And it’s cooler inside with the fans…” He paused to light his Gauloise, and drew on it deeply, looking appraisingly at his brother. It was a mystery to him how Edouard managed it, he thought. There he was, at the end of a solid day of meetings with French officials, looking exactly the way he had when they set out. His white linen suit was unmarked, and uncrumpled. He wasn’t sweating. He didn’t look hot. Jean-Paul glanced down at his own suit, which was too tight for him, and damned uncomfortable. There was wine on the sleeve, and it was a mass of sweaty creases. However, he didn’t care; he was feeling smug. Maybe now Edouard would see—he didn’t know it all.

  “Well. Salut.” He lifted the glass of pastis, and took a large swallow. “Feeling better are you now, little brother?”

  “Should I?” Edouard regarded him coolly.

  “I would have thought so, yes. All right, all right—I know you wouldn’t listen to me, but maybe you’ll listen to them. They’ve got their finger on the pulse. If there was going to be trouble, serious trouble, they’d know about it. And what did they tell you—every single one of them? Exactly the same as I told you. It’ll all blow over. It’s under control.”

  “That was what they said, yes.”

  “And you don’t believe them, I suppose? Jesus, Edouard, you can be bloody arrogant, you know. The governor general lays it on the line, no ‘ifs’ or ‘buts,’ and you—you don’t believe him.”

  “I wasn’t impressed by the governor general.” Edouard paused. “I was interested in that junior aide—”

  “What—the Algerian fellow? Never said a word. Looked scared shitless if you ask me.”

  “That’s precisely what I thought was interesting.” Edouard’s voice was cold. He turned his head and looked around the café. Its clientele was almost entirely male, with just a few women—secretaries being bought a drink by their bosses, presumably. The café was closed to Algerians; everyone in it was French.

  “Oh, I give up.” Jean-Paul finished his drink, and called to the waiter for another. “What the hell—let’s not argue anymore, Edouard. I’m sick of it. You’ve had your say, and I’m not going to change my mind. Now—let’s forget it. It’s your last evening here, for God’s sake. Loosen up a bit, can’t you? Let’s have a good time.”

  Edouard’s face had suddenly cleared. He stood up. “There’s Isobel. She’s looking for us. Excuse me a moment…” He walked out onto the terrasse, and Jean-Paul saw Isobel spot him, turn, smile, move quickly into his embrace. He sighed, and lit another cigarette. They were very happy, that much was obvious, and he was glad of that. He hadn’t felt jealous—why should he? The thing between himself and Isobel had been so long ago, he had difficulty remembering it, and it had been a mistake from the first. And she seemed to suit Edouard, to understand him. He was different with her than with everyone else—gentler, softer, more like the old Edouard. It was clear she knew how to get through to him, and that was a good thing. He’d been beginning to think no one could anymore. Well, she was very beautiful, and they’d have a child soon, he imagined, and that ought to make Edouard happy…He heaved himself to his feet as they approached the table. Isobel was laughing at something Edouard had just said; she was wearing a white linen suit, and her green eyes sparkled. She reached up now to kiss him on both cheeks.

  “Jean-Paul—that car of yours is a monster. And the traffic! I’ve had to park miles away. And then I got lost. Look—I’ve brought you both a present…”

  She handed them two little tissue paper parcels, tied with string and sealed with wax. They slowly unwrapped them, while Isobel watched them eagerly.

  “It’s sandalwood—sticks of sandalwood. You know, Jean-Paul. Don’t they smell heavenly? You put them in a little brazier thing, like a tiny cup, and they smolder—the man said they’ll scent the whole room. Oh…” She leaned back. “I wanted to get so many things—just because the colors were so lovely. Powdered indigo—that wonderful blue, like lapis. And henna. And spices, of course—cumin and turmeric—oh, and they had saffron, piles of it, freshly dried, and…”

  The two men looked at each other. Edouard sighed. “Darling—have you been in the Algerian quarter?”

  Isobel looked vague. “I might have been. I’m not sure where I was…”

  “Don’t lie…”

  “Oh, all right. I nearly was. I didn’t go too far, truly. Just to the part in between—the no-man’s land.” Her eyes shone mischievously. “And then I found the market, and then I came back here. Now, don’t look so stern. Say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” they said in chorus. Then Edouard smiled. “Oh, all right, forget it. You’re safely here anyway. I might have known we couldn’t keep you within bounds…” He gestured to the waiter. “What will you have to drink, my darling?”

  “Oh, just some Perrier and ice,” Isobel said casually. Edouard looked at her in surprise.

  “You’re sure? You wouldn’t like a glass of wine? An apéritif?”

  “No, darling, really. I’m too thirsty. Perrier would be lovely.” She hesitated. “And actually—I’m starving. Walking must have made me hungry. Maybe I’ll have a sandwich. No, I won’t. I’ll have a glass of cold milk.”

  “A glass of Perrier and a glass of cold milk?”

  Edouard stared at her. She nodded unconcernedly.

  “That’s it. Thank you, darling.”

  The waiter’s eyebrows rose as he took the order, but he made no comment. He returned shortly with the two drinks, and Isobel calmly sat and sipped the milk, a secretive smile on her beautiful face. Tomorrow, she thought. I shall be able to tell him tomorrow. The second we leave.

  Oh, hurry up, tomorrow! She looked around the café as Edouard and Jean-Paul talked. She thought it was beautiful. She thought every single person in it, all the graying businessmen, all t
he young secretaries, were beautiful. The world was beautiful. She glanced up at Edouard as he leaned forward across the table to make some point: the thick black hair, the sharply etched features, the incisiveness with which he always spoke. She wondered if the baby would look like him; she hoped it would—babies with red hair looked horrible. No, she could have a red-haired baby later. But this baby, boy or girl, she wanted this baby to look like Edouard, who had made her happy, truly happy, for the first time in her life. Surreptitiously, she slipped her hands beneath the table and rested them against her stomach. She wished she were not still so flat, wished the baby would grow quickly. She wanted to feel its body, see her stomach swell, have Edouard rest his hand there, over the curve, and feel their baby stir beneath his fingers. Four months: they began to move at four months, that was what the doctor had said. Her face had fallen.

  “So long! Another two months!”

  He had smiled patiently. “A lot of other things have to happen first. And they’re happening now—even though you’re unaware of it. At two months, you can see the head of the fetus quite clearly, and the curve of the spine. By three months, the arms are discernible, and the legs, and the features. By four months, Madame de Chavigny, when you’ll start to feel it stir—and then maybe give you a hefty kick—the fetus is—”

  Oh, not fetus! she had wanted to say. The baby. My baby. Edouard’s baby. Our miracle—for that was how it felt, how she hoped it felt for all women. A miracle: new life. She looked up, then touched Jean-Paul’s arm.

  A boy was standing next to the table, looking at Jean-Paul shyly. He was very young, and handsome in a slightly effeminate way: about eighteen or nineteen, Isobel thought. A southerner, perhaps, with very dark hair and an olive skin. He was wearing a nylon drip-dry shirt, open at the neck, freshly pressed trousers; he had a leather satchel of books under his arm. A student, perhaps.

  “Monsieur le Baron…” The boy spoke hesitantly, and Jean-Paul looked up. To Isobel’s surprise he went beet-red, flushing from the collar of his shirt to the roots of his now receding hair. He stood up and held out his hand with slightly excessive cordiality.

  “Why, François! How nice to run into you. How are you? Were you just passing? Maybe you’d like a drink…Join us, join us.”

  Edouard looked up in surprise, and the boy eagerly drew forward a chair. He put the satchel of books on the floor and sat down. Jean-Paul made vague informal introductions.

  “This is Edouard, my brother. Isobel, his wife. Edouard, Isobel, this is François…Did I mention him to you? He’s a student, working over here for a few months. I’ve been helping him to find his feet a bit in Algiers.”

  The boy gave a nervous smile. Jean-Paul gestured to the waiter.

  “François, what will you have? Just coffee? You’re sure? Fine. Nothing for you, Edouard? Another Perrier, Isobel, yes? And I’ll have a pastis…”

  The waiter disappeared. There was an awkward silence. Then the boy said, very formally, “I am honored to meet you.” He nodded at Isobel. At Edouard. Isobel glanced at her husband, and saw that his face had hardened and his eyes were angry. He looked across the table at Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul’s eyes slid away. He lit another cigarette, and Isobel noticed his hands were shaking slightly. He offered one to the boy, and the boy politely refused. He sat there, looking from face to face expectantly. Isobel leaned forward, feeling sorry for him.

  “A student? Where are you studying?”

  “At Lyons, Madame.” He paused, then added, with a slight swagger. “La philosophe. Et les sciences politiques.”

  “Goodness.” Isobel cast around in her mind for some comment to make. There didn’t seem to be one. She couldn’t imagine why Jean-Paul had issued the invitation to join them.

  “I read the same subjects…” Edouard was now making an effort. He hesitated. “You are enjoying your stay in Algiers?”

  “Oh, very much.” The boy’s eyes went from face to face. He smiled. “I find I am learning a great deal.”

  “You’re late returning to your course,” Edouard said pleasantly. “The university term began at the beginning of the month.” There was a little silence. The boy’s color rose. He lowered his eyes. “Well, yes,” he muttered. “I needed to work here just a little longer. To raise the tuition, you know. I had permission—from my professor.”

  “François is a clever boy,” Jean-Paul cut in quickly. “In the top five percent of his class, so he tells me.” He took a large swallow of pastis, and looked at his watch pointedly. If the hint was directed at the boy, he seemed not to take it. He took another small sip of his coffee. Edouard was tapping the table idly with one finger, which Isobel knew was a sign of irritation. Jean-Paul seemed to have exhausted his conversational overtures. She leaned forward quickly.

  “And your work here? Are you enjoying that?”

  “It’s not bad.” The boy shrugged indifferently “I work in one of the hotels—the Marine. It overlooks the bay.” He paused, and Isobel saw him glance at Jean-Paul slyly. “I work the elevators,” he went on more expansively. “The pay’s bad, of course, but the tips are good. The French always tip very generously. If they’re pleased with you.”

  Edouard turned his head; he gave the boy a cold stare. Isobel looked around the table in confusion. She could sense some undercurrent of tension which she was at a loss to explain. Jean-Paul was looking flustered and embarrassed; she knew that Edouard was coldly furious. Only the boy seemed quite at ease. He turned now and glanced up at the clock above the bar. Then drained his coffee.

  “It’s getting late. I’m on the evening shift tonight.”

  “Please. Don’t let us detain you.” Edouard’s voice was icy. Isobel stared: it was so unlike him—she couldn’t think why he was being so rude.

  “Maybe François would like some more coffee,” she began, and then stopped. The boy was getting to his feet. His color had risen, and Isobel felt very embarrassed for him.

  “No. Thank you, Madame.” He bowed to each of them in turn. “I must go. I shall be late. I am honored to have met you.”

  His eyes met those of Jean-Paul for an instant. The boy fumbled in the pocket of his shirt and drew out a couple of crumpled notes. “Please…” He tossed them down onto the small saucer on the table. “I must pay for my coffee. Messieurs. Madame.”

  “François—please, there’s no need for that. I…” Jean-Paul half-rose from his seat, but the boy had gone, weaving his way through the throng of people behind the bar. Jean-Paul shrugged and sank back into his chair. He looked very flushed, almost guilty, Isobel thought curiously.

  Edouard stood up. “We should go,” he said curtly. “I’ll fetch the car and bring it around. Where did you leave it, Isobel?”

  “In the Rue Pascal. Just around the corner to the right and then first right and—”

  “I’ll find it. I know it.”

  Edouard walked out, his face stiff with anger. There was another awkward silence, broken by the laughter from the bar. Isobel frowned.

  “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul. What was that all about? Edouard’s not usually so rude.”

  “Oh, God knows. He’s been in a foul temper all day. He has these moods. You must be used to them by now…”

  “I suppose so.” Isobel shrugged. “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I hope your friend wasn’t offended, that’s all.” She stopped, suddenly catching sight of the notes in the saucer. She reached across, and unfolded them. “Oh, look, Jean-Paul. Your friend’s made a mistake. You’d better keep this for him. There’s thirty francs here…” She stopped. Jean-Paul’s color had suddenly faded; he sat very still.

  “His satchel,” he said. “His satchel of books. Did he take it?” Isobel bent down. She straightened up with a smile.

  “No—he’s left that too. What a forgetful young man! Jean-Paul, you’ll have to take it with us, and—”

  She stopped. Jean-Paul was clasping her wrist. She saw his eyes grow round, bewilderment and disbelief on his face. Then the bomb in the satchel went
off.

  Edouard was in the car, on the far side of the square, when he heard the explosion. It was deafeningly loud; he felt hot air burn his face; the car veered across the road. In the equally deafening silence that followed, he looked up, and saw the dust, glass, debris, settle in slow motion. Then he was out of the car and running. He ran toward the remains of the café as everyone else ran away.

  Suddenly the square was filled with fleeing people. He pushed past them frantically, his eyes smarting from the dust. Then he stopped. The bomb had taken out the café, and the two floors above it. Girders gaped. Half the wall of the next house had been blown out, and he could see into the room beyond. An iron bedstead, skewed across a smashed floor; a torn curtain—I have seen this before, he thought, still with his mind in that crazed slow motion. Where? In the blitz.

  The curtain flapped in a glassless window. In front of him was a mound of concrete blocks, dust, jagged glass, and twisted metal. It was fifteen feet, twenty feet high. Yellow dust was settling, choking his throat. The mound of masonry was still, and silent. No moans; no sighs; no cries; nothing. He stared at it in frozen incomprehension. Trapped under one of the huge concrete blocks was part of a man’s leg, severed at the knee. The black trouser material was ripped to ribbons; the shoe, intact, was still on. Farther up, like part of a discarded doll, was the top half of a woman’s torso, blood billowing from where the head should have been, the remnants of a flowered dress settling under the dust.

  Not Isobel, he thought. Not Isobel. Isobel was wearing white. He heard someone cry out, a terrible cry, and then realized it was himself.

  He was not alone now. A woman was standing near him, an old woman, plump, with gray hair, wearing a black dress. She, too, was staring at the debris. He saw her lift her arms in a slow gesture of horror, or perhaps rage, to the clear sky above. He saw her mouth open, but he did not hear her scream.

  Then both the woman and Edouard fell to their knees. They began frantically to scrabble in the stone and dust. Behind them, in the city, Edouard heard the sirens begin to wail.